The Stuff of Legend
by Lilac Reverie
Summary: King WHO? The Round WHAT? - Standalone, not connected to any other story/series. Ten.
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** Yeah, I know, the Doctor and King Arthur have been done to death, fanfic-wise. Not gonna keep me from putting my stamp on it, though. Hopefully my version will at least be different enough to be entertaining._

_This fic takes place between _The Next Doctor_ and _Planet of the Dead_, and is completely unrelated to any of my previous stories or series._

_Personal note: I'm still in school and working, both, so don't expect me to power through this very fast. Hopefully at least a chapter a week, but no promises._

_Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all its characters and main situations are the property of the BBC, not me.  
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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_London Times, dateline 24th April 2018_

The scientific community, indeed, the entire country has been awash with speculation and controversy ever since the earth-shaking discovery last fall of what has been dubbed The Tor Treasure. No _Times_ reader need be reminded of the contents of that solid oak chest buried deep in the newly-rediscovered caverns winding through the heart of Glastonbury Tor: scraps of parchment, sadly deteriorated; the shallow, jewelled dish, scorched and distorted as though from a blow, that some have intemperately dubbed The Holy Grail; and most importantly and astonishingly, the broadsword, adorned with a single giant ruby, still untarnished and sharp within its intricately-worked leather scabbard after centuries of burial in the dark.

Could this truly be Excalibur?

All avenues of scientific analysis have continued to pile on layer after layer of mystery, rather than answers.

Both dish and sword have been found to have been fashioned from combinations of pure metals in such concentrations as have never been found together on this planet. Geologists speculate the most likely sources of their ore to have been meteorites. Yet not only do the two artifact's exact composition differ from each other (meaning they would have had to have been different meteorites), but no other meteorite even approximating either has ever been found.

Further, although the ruby in the sword has been traced through chemical analysis to have come from northern India, and most of the jewels in the dish have likewise been sourced from various spots in Scandinavia and northern Europe, several of the dish's other stones have yet to be positively identified at all; they are a crystal unknown on this Earth.

These facts lead many to the conclusion that both objects are of extra-terrestrial origin. Although such visitations have been incontrovertible in recent decades (see _Times_ archives stories), no such ancient visit has yet been established. The box itself, of good stout English Oak, has been positively carbon dated to the early sixth century, and the discoverers attest that it was patently undisturbed since then.

Finally, the parchment scraps have been put to the most rigorous analyses by independent (not to say competing) teams, and the results of each one – on the parchment itself, the ink used, linguistics analysis, etc – all point to the same era as the box. Yet others point to certain anachronisms within the text as proof against taking it at face value.

Skeptics claim the Tor Treasure is the most sophisticated, elaborate hoax yet discovered, citing the possibility of the sword and dish having been manufactured recently from scraps left by one or more of the invaders of early this century. Others, however, raise the simple question: why should we assume the recent, quite public invasions or visitations to have been the first? Who knows what other visits have been lost in the mists of time from our deep history?

We may never know the answers, but the search for them goes on...


	2. Lady of the Lake

**Lady of the Lake**

In the name of the Goddess I give thee greeting.

It seems strange to me, this idea of putting words to parchment to remember what happened, and I am not quite certain why I am doing it. From the beginning, our histories have always been passed from one to another by the spoken word, with never a single one forgotten or misplaced. It is the way of our druid bards, to be our living memories. Yet what I have seen is so far removed from the doings of warlords and thanes, of births and deaths and marriages, of the passing of the seasons and harvests that make up our histories that I feel compelled to find a different means to record it. As compelled as Gwenhyfar – but I'm getting ahead of myself.

In the six score of years since the last of the Roman Legions have left our shores, the affairs of men have continued as they always had. Petty quarrels and small invasions from the Picts north of the Roman wall, from the Northmen, whom some call Saxons, from the east across the northern seas, from Gaul, from Eire, from all corners men at arms came and burned, raped, and pillaged. Some times they were thrown back again, by the warlord whose land they had scorched, or sometimes by a group of his neighbors whom he bribed to help. Some times they overran the country and gained a foothold, keeping it for a few seasons or longer. Such was the case in the south east of this land, where the Saxons had settled for good, it seemed, and no one could drive them out.

As a child, and then as an acolyte, I learned all these things, and of the Mysteries of my world, from my mother, the previous Lady of the Lake, and when she died I was called to take her place on the Tor. And so I began leaving the Tor, traveling to speak with the warlords and give counsel when it was needed, striving always to preserve our people, as the Goddess desired of me. Always I kept one eye open for the coming of the next King, the one who would take up the Sword in our hour of greatest need. Always it has been the duty of the Lady of the Lake to find this one and raise him up, and I was growing a bit desperate. None had had the strength of mind and will to lead more than a single small kingdom since Constans in my grandmother's time, but our enemies were growing stronger by the day. We had need of a King, and soon.

For the past several years, the Saxons have been growing ever more bold and bloodthirsty, striking far past their ceded borders and laying waste. Nor have incursions from the other directions stopped. When word came of a new Saxon band, riding hard and wreaking havoc, I knew I could wait no longer. There were three or four men, various petty kings or their sons, who might be able to take the Sword, but I could not say which among them had the Light within.

So I devised a test, taking some of the traditions of old, and our ancient, secret ways, and called all the kings and chieftains together to witness the lifting of the revered Sword of the Ancients which I had brought from its secret catacomb on the Tor. Whichever one could free it from its fastness would be proclaimed King, and would lead them all in battle.

Such is the power of the Tor, and such was the dire need, that all came, and all took their turn at the attempt, but none prevailed on the first day, nor the second. Watching and listening always, with many more eyes than my own, I had narrowed it down to two whom I thought would do well as King, and made my plans to tip the scales towards them on the third day. Whichever of the two won through first would take it, with the Goddess's blessing. I attended the evening feast with a satisfied smile, seeing my path clear before me at last.

And then HE came.


	3. Hail to the King!

**Hail to the King!**

Meandering slowly around the TARDIS control panel, the Doctor tweaked and twiddled with a distracted smile, his mind on the excellent Christmas dinner he'd just shared with Jackson Lake. _In memory of those we've lost..._ They'd toasted lost loved ones and each other again and again, long past even Rosita's thinning patience, and she'd taken young Frederick off to bed in a huff, leaving the two "Doctors" in a gleeful, tearful, turkey-and-brandy-fueled huddle.

For both of them, it had been a much-needed catharsis. Jackson was able to work through a bit of his guilt and heavy grief at his wife's death that his memory loss had been holding at bay; when he began speaking in hopeful terms about beginning his teaching engagement (if the school would still take him on), the Doctor thought the worst might be over for the man. And as for himself... well. His was a life of loss, as he'd told Jackson. He was used to plowing ahead, going on alone until the tides turned again and brought someone new to the TARDIS. In time, the faces that haunted the corners of the control room would fade, their accusing stares softening into the smiles he'd prefer to remember. Even his "own" face, on his metacrisis twin – though he strongly suspected that _his_ glare had been rather pro forma; he hadn't protested all that much at being left with Rose, turning around and pleading his case to her, then whispering in her ear the words he himself couldn't. And wasn't that what he'd wanted?

_Stop it._ Shaking off the memories before they could run away with him yet again, he swung around and began working the controls for real, deciding on a whim to go backwards in time, following a half-remembered promise to visit his old friend Diocletian and see his cabbages. Hanging on with practiced ease through the mad jolts of the time ship's journey, he frowned when they stopped a good two centuries short of goal. And nowhere near the retired Roman Emperor's farm. They were still in England – well, what would become England in a millenium or so.

"So why are we here?" he muttered aloud. He started to look on the monitor for a clue, then stopped himself with a wry grin. "Getting chicken without someone to hold your hand?" So he ran down the ramp and out the door, closing it with a decisive click on the memories crowding along behind. His hand felt cold and empty without Donna's (_oh, she would have loved this!),_ so he stuffed it in his pocket and walked swiftly down the hill, whistling.

A hill it was, too, tall and forested. And dark – the sun had already set. Ahead was some kind of gathering, though, judging from the noise and torchlight floating up through the trees. He came to a small village, bursting at the seams with visitors camped all around. Most of them seemed to have congregated in a field on the far side of the village; it appeared a feast was under way. Still stuffed with turkey, he didn't feel the need to crash that party; instead he found himself walking up the path to the tent covering the top of a small hill to the side of the feasting field. Two men-at-arms who seemed to be guards had temporarily abandoned their posts, devouring their meals brought moments before a few steps from the opening. They glanced at him and dismissed him as harmless, and went back to stuffing their faces and flirting with the serving girl pouring their mead.

The Doctor slipped inside the tent and stopped short at the odd sight. A single standing stone, crowning the small hill for time out of mind, seemed almost to be absorbing the torchlight rather than reflecting it from its obsidian sides. His sharp eyes picked out an bird's head carved into one side, and then an eye above it. And above that, apparently set into a small niche in the very top of the stone, about level with his shoulders, was an odd metal shape – it looked like a short, slender statue, about two hands high. His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he strode across the tent to take a closer look: this was _not_ of Earth origin. Glancing behind him at the empty doorway, he stepped right up to the "statue" and gave it a cautious lick – _definitely_ not from Earth; though he couldn't quite place the blend. A red sparkle on one side caught his eye, and he twisted his neck to see it clearly: a large, red jewel set near the base, which consisted of a pair of flat legs stretching a few inches fore and aft along the smooth rock surface. The design was tickling his memory, but he ignored it, reaching instead for his sonic screwdriver.

A few buzzes gave him the age – an impossible three and a half millennia – and agreed with him on the extra-terrestrial origin, but was no help on the source. Then suddenly, with a loud crackle and snap, the standing stone split right at the "statue's" base, the crack running down the front of the stone half way to the ground. The Doctor reacted without thinking, reaching swiftly to grasp the "statue" to keep it from falling, only realizing when it fit smoothly into his hand what it actually was: a sword hilt. His involuntary flinch pulled the shaft a few inches from the stone, just as a loud gasp from the tent doorway presaged a shout back towards the feast from the returning guards.

"He's pulled it! He's pulled the sword! Hail to the King!"

"WHAT?" The Doctor whirled around, bug-eyed, then flinched again as he realized he'd pulled the sword the rest of the way out. He whirled back to replace it – just as the fissure disappeared, the two parts of the stone snapping back together with a thunderous _cra-ack!_

More shouts and gasps behind him whirled him like a top again; the tent was filling fast with people gaping at him. _They couldn't have gotten here that fast,_ flittered irrelevantly through his mind, _they must have been on the way up already._ An interesting mix of expressions showed on the collective faces, from thwarted fury to awed wonder to sly amusement (with sideways glances at the furious ones). A few were sinking to their knees. "Hail to the king!" began echoing from those kneeling.

"_WHAT?"_ He took a deep breath. "No, no, no, no-no-no-no-NO! I'm not Arthur!"

"Hail to King Arthur!" came the ridiculous reply.

"_**WHAT?**_ No, I said I'm NOT – oh my giddy aunt!" He broke off his protesting – obviously no one was listening. He drew another breath to try again, then stopped, as the crowd suddenly quieted and parted, melting back to make a path to the door.

In it was framed a handsome woman, almost as tall as himself, with flame-red hair tumbling about her shoulders. Her robe, though plain of adornment, was of a rich, deep wine-red (somehow managing not to clash with her hair), and a plain gold torc around her neck accentuated the erect, regal pose: here was someone of consequence.

Holding his eyes steadily with her own, her sharp intelligence obvious within them, she slowly paced ahead until she stood directly before him. Those green eyes swept him down and up, taking in his odd apparel. "Who are you?" she demanded quietly – no need to raise _her _voice.

"I'm the Doctor," he replied earnestly. "I am NOT the king!"

The red-haired beauty shook her head with a tiny snort. "You are now!" she told him flatly. "There is no gainsaying the Crowning Stone!"

He was about to protest further, but she stepped even closer and hissed at him. "Look you! I don't know who you are, but I can tell you are British. If you care about our land even as far as a tiny bird, you MUST go along with this! We are under attack – you know this! If you turn away, ALL of this will fall apart, and our enemies will sweep across our land and wipe us from it while this rabble squabbles for crumbs! You MUST help us!"

Trapped. The Doctor let loose a long, tortured sigh. She saw his capitulation in his eyes and whispered, "Thank you," then stepped to his side, turning to face the crowd. "Hail King Arthur!" she cried, and the people took it up again in a wild cheer, all the rest sinking to their knees and offering their swords.

"Oh my giddy aunt," he muttered again to himself. Then, "Funny old world. I always thought I'd end up as Merlin, not Arthur."

The lady's head jerked around, and she stared hard at him again.

"You speak very strangely, my lord; as strangely as you are dressed. How in the name of the Goddess could _you_ become _me?"_


	4. The Legend of Caliburn

**The Legend of Caliburn**

_How in the name of Common Sense did I manage to get myself into this ridiculous situation? _All the Doctor could think of was that his wits must still have been brandy-befuddled. Now here he was, a-horseback, leading a hastily assembled warband on a mad dash across the countryside to head off a troop of marauding Saxons. _The last time I was on a horse, _he mused,_ I rode it through a mirror in space to rescue Madame de Pompadour._ He'd laugh if only his bum didn't feel like a bloody slab of katok liver.

Back at the standing stone, he hadn't even had time to draw breath after the red-haired Lady's startling intimation that _she_ was Merlin before a runner burst breathlessly into the tent shouting hoarsely that Saxon marauders were a mere day's ride away, burning and pillaging in their direction. Every man in the tent (and they were all men, save the Lady) went as still as the stone itself, staring at him with fearful hope. What else could he do?

"Then we will ride to meet them!" he yelped, powering through his suddenly dry throat to try to make it more of a yell and raising the sword high. "Who is with me?"

With an answering roar, every man in the tent turned and ran for their horses.

Lowering his arm in their dusty wake, the Doctor turned back to the Lady again, finding her gazing hard at him with an unreadable expression somewhere in the mist between derision and approval. Not wanting to hear her thoughts, whatever they were, he seized on the first thing that leapt to his mind. "I'm in need of a horse, if you could find one for me. I got here on foot." He kept his pitiful poker face plastered as tightly as he could on his mug.

Another beat as her eyebrows flared, then she simply turned to the girl who had slipped into the tent and was obviously waiting for orders. "My horse, Cari. And find one for the King." Apparently she was planning to ride with them, as well. Without another word, she held her hand out to the girl, who brought an ornate leather scabbard out from behind her back. The Lady took it and passed it to the Doctor for "his" new sword, seemed about to speak, then turned abruptly away again and swept outside, leaving him all alone, staring the empty doorway.

"Blimey," he whispered, and tried not to collapse.

^..^

The combined petty kings and dukes sorted themselves out in an astonishingly short half an hour, selecting the best fifty or so warriors among them to accompany the new King into battle. In no time they were mounted and ready, and one elder statesman who was remaining behind due to age and infirmity lent the Doctor a beautiful charger, black as midnight and obviously intelligent. The horse investigated his new rider for a few seconds and decided to give him provisional approval to mount – the Doctor didn't press his luck, knowing he'd have to prove himself to the animal over time.

They rode for several hours through the night carrying torches, following the runner likewise mounted and turned into a guide, leading them back the way he'd come. A few hours rest between moonset and sunrise, then they were off again, sharing out the small provisions they had in their saddle bags while they rode.

The men had left "the King" alone for the most part, none riding at his side just behind the guide, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He wasn't at all sure whether to put that down to respect or what. Now it was just about noon on the following day, and the runner swiveled on his saddle to inform the King that they were nearing the last known location of the invaders.

The Doctor switched hands on the reins again and let his left arm dangle to rest it for a moment, his fingertips finding the sword's scabbard as if drawn to it. Glancing down at the ruby winking in the sunlight, he wondered again at the weapon's history.

"Are you good with a sword, my Lord?" Skepticism crept through the contrived neutrality of the words coming from his right, and he swung his head to look at the Lady spurring her horse up to that side, the first time she'd spoken to him since they'd left the village.

"Actually, I'm a dab hand with a broadsword," he replied with a grin, glad for the distraction. "The last time – well, never mind that one, swords aren't much use against Cybermen." It sure hadn't stopped their clomping march up the stairs after him and Jackson. "But the time before _that_, now, I'll have you know I fought the leader of the Sycorax to a standstill for Rose's hand - I mean, um..." he spluttered, recovering, "I lost my hand... then I grew it back... and then it grew _me_ back... and then _it_ won Rose's hand... or I kind of … gave them to each other..." Desperately seeking a way out of that labyrinth of memories, he glanced right again, catching her look of consternation at his string of nonsensical non sequitors. He seized hold of the first lifeline. "So you're Merlin?"

"Merelen," came the dubious reply.

"Beg pardon?"

She sighed. "If you insist on using my given name, my Lord, rather than my title of Lady of the Lake, I would request that you pronounce it correctly. _Mer_-eh-len."

"Ah. I see. Merelen." She nodded approval of the correction. He looked at her a moment longer, then put a humble note into his voice. "And may I have your permission to call you that – when it is appropriate, of course?"

She took a deep breath, appreciative of the unexpected courtesy. "You may... Lord Arthur." The use of his (presumed) name signaled clearly she considered herself his equal.

He gave an exasperated growl. "That's NOT my name! I was trying to tell _them_ that, but they just latched onto it."

She was staring at him again. "Why would you – never mind. What _is_ your name, then?"

"The Doctor. _Just_ the Doctor. Where I come from, that _is_ a name. – Why did you think I was British?"

"Because of the way you speak – but while the sounds are the same as ours, the words are nonsense."

"My accent? Of course – the TARDIS translator circuit." He shook his head – usually being mistaken for a "local" didn't cause _this_ kind of trouble.

"Where are you from then, Lord Doctor?"

"Just Doctor, please. Drop the Lord." He took a deep breath, measuring her for potential understanding, then took the plunge. "I'm from very far away – a different world, in fact. A different planet, not this Earth, spinning around a different Sun." He left out the fact that it was twin suns. Enough was enough.

The Lady went as still as ice, unconsciously pulling her horse to a stop, staring at him through huge eyes. He stopped his own mount a second later and looked back at her, waiting for her to absorb it. As the rest of the group began to reach them (they'd been hanging back several lengths), it caused a ripple, and she came to with a start and kicked her horse back into motion.

"So it's true," she finally said, her voice shaking. "The ancient legend. You've come for the sword, then, to take it back where it belongs?"

Nonplussed, the Doctor stared back. "No... That's not why I'm here." _I don't think._ "What's this legend? Tell me."

She hesitated, then shook her head again. "I won't tell you the bard's version, we'd be here for days. The sword you carry, which we call Caliburn, was brought to my ancient ancestress, the first Lady of the Lake, back before even the Romans came to Britain. A woman from the stars brought it here for safekeeping, asking the first Lady to keep it hidden, that some day someone would return for it. She also said it would protect Britain from her enemies, so long as it was used by one who was worthy. That's why the sword decides who is King."

"A woman from the stars?" _Who could that be? _"What was her name?"

"She has no name in the bard's tales, only a title, like mine. She was called the Song of the River."

_River Song..._ It hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. He glanced down at the sword again, three thousand plus years old, from somewhere – and likely somewhen – far across the galaxy. _Oh, River, where did you steal it from? And why did you bring it here?_ (Much later, in a quiet moment, he'd reflect that he didn't actually _know _she'd stolen it. It just seemed likely from the one brief time he'd known her before she died.)

Merelen had been watching his face. "Do you know of the Lady, my Lo – Doctor?"

He nodded absently. "A bit. Just a bit. She's a mystery." _One I'm apparently going to solve some day. But not today._

A small cloud of dust was marking the return of one of the scouts he'd sent out ahead. He pulled up hard beside the Doctor. "My Lord! The Saxons are just over that ridge, in the next valley. They're on the move, marching this way!"

They had found the enemy.

_NOW what am I going to do?_


	5. Unexpected Enemies

**Unexpected Enemies**

The Doctor and his warband were spread among the trees lining the top of the ridge, peering down into the open valley at the group shambling towards them, alert but relaxed, and not apparently in any particular hurry. "They outnumber us, not quite two to one," the warrior beside him quietly observed, "but they're on foot. As we're attacking downhill, the advantage is definitely ours." He glanced sideways at "the King". "We should attack now, my Lord, while we have the added advantage of surprise." The Saxons didn't appear to have noticed them yet.

The Doctor, outwardly impassive, was in full panic mode inside, scrambling to find some way out of the impending battle – when suddenly the dust in front of the Saxon band cleared slightly, and he reared his head back, drawing his breath in a low hiss.

Merelen's head swiveled around. "My Lord?"

"Those aren't Saxons," he said flatly.

"Of course they are! Every one is a Saxon warrior!"

"_They_ are," he agreed, waving towards the pack at large. "But their leaders aren't. Look closely at the four in front."

She did so, peering through the dust cloud, and suddenly her eyes grew as wide as his. "They.. they aren't..."

"They aren't human. They're Telashid."

"From the stars? Like you?"

"From the stars. Not like me – they're from a different planet. But I know of them." _And they're worse than the Sycorax. (Speaking of the Sycorax.) _The Doctor shook his shoulders, and turned abruptly to the warrior who'd been giving the situation report, a big, strapping young man with reddish-brown curls covering his chin and escaping his helmet. "What's your name?"

"Uther, my Lord. From Cornwall."

The Doctor gulped through a double-take, then shook his head. "Well, then, Uther. You're my second in command. Stay here with the men. _Do not attack_ – unless I'm cut down. You understand?"

Uther looked astounded. "You're riding to talk with them, my Lord? Saxons don't honor the banner of truce."

"No, but I just said, they're not Saxons."

Without another word, he signalled the rest of the line to stay put, Uther adding his hand a beat later, then spurred his horse forward at a walk. A few yards down the hill, he realized Merelen had joined him, and he turned to her with a wry grin. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know!"

She spared him a sharp glance, then replied, "Yes, but she died purring!" Her lips twitched, but the answering grin faded before it reached them, betraying more determination than adventure.

Glancing back, the Doctor realized that Uther had brought half of the band to the edge of the trees along the ridge, widely spread with another line just visible in the shadows behind them – hinting at even more behind _them_, in a good show of strength. _Good thinking._ He faced forward again, as the shouts below signaled the Saxon's reaction to their appearance. He dropped the reins and spread his hands wide, empty palms up and out, and felt Merelen copy him.

The Saxons had seen the warband and begun to react, the warriors in the rear of the straggling column running up to form a ragged line across the road and into the fields on either side, dropping their loads and freeing their weapons. True to Uther's warning, none of them seemed particularly interested in a parley, though, not even the four Telashid in front center.

The Telashid were a particularly humanoid race, appearing close enough to human to pass at first glance – if one's glance missed the extra foot of height, the extreme skeletal thinness of their bodies, and the additional joint in each reedlike appendage. The coloration of their skin (tan) and head fur (grey-brown), and general arrangement of facial features, however, was close enough to Earth normal for a bit of camouflage. They were known to have a particularly nasty disposition, haughty and aloof, but vicious when crossed. The Doctor was chewing over the implications of a Telashid invasion at this point in Earth's history with one distant corner of his mind – it wasn't an appealing proposition. He had to do something to get their attention.

Halfway down the hill, he slowly lowered his hands and pulled out the sword, gingerly grasping the middle of the long blade and holding it upright out before him like a cross, the giant ruby winking in the sunlight towards the waiting soldiers. That did get the attention of the four Telashid; after a brief exchange they barked orders at the rest of their troops to settle down and wait, then the four of them walked forward to meet them.

The tallest of them moved in front, and kept coming right up to the Doctor, reaching his long jointed arm towards the tip of the sword. The Doctor held it steady, allowing the Telashid to touch it – apparently he got as much information from that touch as the Doctor could from taste.

"That is not from this planet," the Telashid leader said harshly. The Doctor's double hearing recognized the actual sounds as rough Saxon speech, while the TARDIS obligingly put the meaning into his mind.

"No," replied the Doctor, deliberately switching to Telashique. "And neither are you."

The Telashid reacted instantly, hissing in surprise. "Who are you?" the leader demanded in his own language.

"I'm the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord, from Gallifrey. And this is a Level 5 planet. Invasion of it is illegal, by Shadow Proclamation Article Fifty-Six – "

"We are not invaders! We are explorers! Our ship crashed here many years ago, and we were marooned. Now there are only a handful of us left. We have been living peacefully among these people since."

"You call this peaceful?" The Doctor swept an arm over the assembled army. He'd switched back to English, his most comfortable language, and let the TARDIS take over translations again, noticing out of the corner of his eye that it was apparently including Merelen in the loop, as well, from her reactions. "You may not have invaded the planet, but you are definitely leading an invasion by 'these people' into another country."

"We seek only that which was stolen from us! Our right under Clause Three-Seventy-Four, of your precious Shadow Proclamation, 'theft of an artifact of great cultural value legitimizes the use of lethal force to ensure the artifact's recovery'." His voice made the quotation marks obvious.

_Stars help us,_ thought the Doctor. _They're lawyers._ "What was stolen?"

"The Feydrian Grallish." The TARDIS didn't translate the name into anything meaningful. "Our greatest treasure. It is a disk of precious metal, this large, with precious stones imbedded around the outer rim." His double-jointed fingers described a circle in the air about fourteen inches across. On the Doctor's other side, unnoticed, Merelen drew a long, silent breath of air. "It was stolen from us three winters ago, and we have traced the thief here."

"And this is how you find it? By burning your way across the countryside?" He was livid.

The Telashid leader shrugged, unconcerned. "It is our right, under the Proclamation," he repeated. Then he grinned, showing an ugly set of sharp, pointed, gapped teeth. "It didn't take much to convince our friends here to help us retrieve it."

"I don't doubt that," replied the Doctor sarcastically. "And how much would it take to _convince_ them to leave off and return home?"

Another shrug. "Return the Grallish, and we will return to our borders." His gaze sharpened, and he waited.

"And in the meantime, you'll continue pillaging? Not good enough. Stop now, and we'll look for it."

"A temporary truce?" The leader considered, glancing back at his companions, then nodded. "Very well. We will fall back to the last village – I think there was still some food left there. But we will not wait long. You have nine days to bring the Grallish to us, and then we will begin looking again – our way. Agreed?"

"If anyone in that village survived your attack, you must let them go immediately," Merelen put in, and the Telashid shrugged again.

"Your name on it," the Doctor insisted, remembering the importance Telashids put on their personal honor.

"Medraut," came the reply.


	6. The Grallish

**The Grallish**

The Doctor and Merelen kept their horses where they stood, watching the four Telashid turn their small army around and head back down the road. It took a bit of convincing, but eventually they won out, and the Saxons picked their packs up again and began their retreat.

When he was sure all were out of earshot, he turned to Merelen and simply asked, "Where is it?"

"My Lord?"

"You recognized the description of the Grallish; I heard your reaction. Where is it?"

She stared at him a moment longer, then gave a careful reply, "It is in the safekeeping of the Bishop of Glastonbury, in the treasury of the Abbey, not far from where you were named King."

He cocked his head, seeming to hear what she wasn't saying, and gave her a quick smile. "Your competitors?" She didn't reply. He gazed after the retreating Saxons for a moment, considering. "How level-headed is Uther?"

Seeing she was confused by the abrupt change of subject, he waved a hand ahead and explained. "We need to leave most of our men here to watch them, and make sure they keep to their side of the bargain by staying in the village – and letting any survivors go. Can Uther do that, while keeping our men in line, and not causing any incidents?"

Merelen nodded. "Yes, my Lord. He would be the best choice to lead that group." She hesitated a moment, then went ahead. "He was one of the two most likely to be chosen as King, before your arrival." Inwardly pleased at her own adroit phrasing, sidestepping the fact that she herself was doing the choosing, she kept it off her face.

"Who was the other?"

"Bedwyr of Benoic." She gave him a brief description of the other warrior; dark, lithe but strong, with a wolf symbol on his shield, and he nodded, remembering the quietly confident man.

"We'll take him and a few others with us, then." Something else was bothering him. "Medraut, Medraut..." he muttered, worrying over the Telashid leader's name. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"I've also heard him called Mordred, my Lord."

"Oh." He sighed, then shot her a dark look. "I really wish you hadn't told me that." Not bothering to explain, he reined his horse around and spurred him back up the slope to their waiting, mystified, but jubilant troops.

^..^

_Late the following afternoon..._

Contrary to the common perception among his companions, the Doctor did have a few life-long rules of thumb, and one of them was to avoid entanglement with priests – of any religion. The vast majority of the time, he'd found through experience, their primary goal was furthering the interests of their god or their own, not of their fellow man – or the Doctor. He was perforce making an exception for Merelen, as he had zero choice in the matter. But she was continually proving helpful, and quite possibly the exception to the "public interest" rule.

Bishop Antonius, however, swiftly and firmly placed himself in the opposite camp. The Grail, as he called it, would remain where it was, bringing glory to the Christian God and His Holy Church, and no amount of pleading from the Doctor or public massacres by aliens seeking their stolen property would move him a hair's breadth. He only begrudgingly told how it had come to the Abbey, a gift from the Lady Gwenhyfar when she had joined the Sisters a year or two before. No, they could not speak with her; she was in seclusion.

At least the Doctor did talk him into allowing a brief inspection of the holy relic, and the Bishop had his assistant, Brother Derec, unlock the vaulted room behind his office and bring it out. A single surreptitious pulse with the sonic screwdriver positively identified it as extra-terrestrial (he wasn't allowed to get close enough for a lick), but then Brother Derec quickly wrapped it up again and stepped back, standing before the vault door holding it reverently before him. As the Bishop began pontificating again, obviously edging towards seeing them out, the Doctor noticed out of the corner of his eye Brother Derec nodding slightly towards Merelen, who, insultingly ignored all this time by the Bishop, had remained standing near the outer door.

Just as the Doctor began to turn towards her, she let out a low moan, her eyes rolling upwards and lids fluttering closed over them, and both hands floated skyward, palms up. Starting low, then swiftly gaining volume and intensity, she began chanting words the TARDIS refused to translate for him. The Bishop's face shot purple, and he flung out his own arms and almost ran towards her, growling at Brother Derec to lock up the Grail and then call for the soldiers stationed outside. Between his shouting prayers to counteract the demons he was sure she was channeling, and her prophesying or praying or whatever it was she was doing, the Doctor merely stood, gaping – until suddenly Merelen gave a gasp, her eyes flying open wide, and she collapsed sideways into the Doctor's arms.

After that, the Bishop couldn't get them out of the Abbey fast enough. The Doctor and Bedwyr, who had come running at Brother Derec's summoning shout, carried her semi-conscious form across the courtyard to the guest rooms they had previously been assigned and carefully laid her on her bed, then the Doctor shooed everyone else out to let her rest. He leaned heavily against the inside of the door, sighing and shaking his head in frustration and bewilderment. Was everyone insane except him?

A moment later, Merelen stirred again, sitting up slowly and rubbing her face with both hands. "Thank you for catching me," she said calmly.

"What was _that_ all about?" he demanded.

She smiled serenely. "Don't worry, Doctor. The Goddess will help us. You will see – by this evening, all will be well."

He spluttered, but she held up a hand, stopping him. "Doctor. Trust me."

He realized suddenly she was calling him by his real name, dropping the "my Lord" this and "King" that. His mouth hung open, nonplussed.

Merelen cocked her head at him and smiled again. "I need to rest, and I suspect you do, as well. We've been riding non-stop for two days. I'd suggest you take a hot bath, Doctor."

"A hot _bath?"_ he started to go off again, taking a painful, hobbling step across the room, but again she stopped him.

"You're not used to riding horses, are you, Doctor?" she asked, nodding at his double limp.

Taken aback, he took a breath then let it out. "No," he admitted ruefully.

"I highly recommend the hot springs at the bottom of the hill, Doctor. A sovereign remedy for... sore sovereigns' behinds."

He stared at her, then rolled his eyes as he turned to follow her advice. "And here I thought puns hadn't been invented yet," he muttered grumpily.

^..^

"All right, all right, I admit it: you were right. My behind feels _much_ better now. Thank you," he told her, grinning across the table set for two. They were sharing a quiet dinner after sunset, served in her room from the Abbey kitchen. Horrified though he was at having the pagan Lady of the Lake within his walls, the Bishop nevertheless could ill afford to slight the new King by tossing him out or ignoring him. He'd even invited the Doctor "and your companions" to dine with him, but neglected to press them when they politely declined. The twelve men who had traveled there with the Doctor took their meal in the large hall with the abbey Brothers – although Bedwyr seemed to have disappeared during the afternoon, promising to return that evening, according to one of the men.

Partway through the simple meal of roast chicken, sliced venison, hot fresh bread and sweet, cold mead, the door opened to admit another serving man – at least, that's who the Doctor thought it was at first. The man walked quietly to the table and knelt before Merelen, and the Doctor realized it was Brother Derec. "My Lady," he said softly, and held out a parcel wrapped in rough homespun wool, the same material his humble robe was made of. No one had to ask what was inside it: the Grallish.

"Thank you, Derec," she replied, as softly, and laid her fingertips on his brow in a ritual gesture. "The Goddess give you her blessing. Can you safely remain, or do you wish release from this post?"

"I will remain, my Lady." He bowed his head briefly to her and began to rise, catching the Doctor's wondering eyes on the way up. "I serve both God and the Goddess, my Lord, but I serve my people first. If the return of this item will save lives and land, it serves a better purpose than laying unseen in the Bishop's vault. He won't even realize it's gone for days." And with that, he slipped back out the door, as silently as he had arrived.

The Doctor turned back to Merelen, his dumbfounded expression sliding into a conspiratorial grin. "A _spy,_ madam? I'm impressed."

"Not everyone has abandoned the old ways," she replied, pleased nevertheless – surprising herself with her reaction to his approval.

"How did... Oh-ho! You were simply causing a distraction, weren't you, while Derec hid the Grallish somewhere _other_ than back inside the vault, correct?"

She smiled and nodded, and he raised his mead horn in a heartfelt salute.

The following morning, whilst the Bishop was busy conducting morning matins, they quietly saddled up and rode out the gate, back towards the village of Camlann. The Doctor had the Grallish safely tucked underneath his coat behind his back. The men accompanying them were curious, but compliant with the King's wishes, accepting easily his odd directives and joking softly between themselves about the mad dashes back and forth across the countryside.

Bedwyr, though, was obviously distracted, the normally quiet man even more silent this morning, constantly stealing thunderous glances toward the far side of the Abbey, and the Doctor noted that even after they began the return journey, the Benoic prince kept turning in his saddle and gazing back, until the last tower disappeared behind the trees.


	7. Full Circle

**Full Circle**

"No, my Lord, we've had no problems at all – but they have. Half of their number has already left, returning back to their ceded land and leaving the leaders behind. The rest of them found the mead and beer the villagers left behind, and are bloody useless." Uther gave the Doctor a satisfied grin as he finished his brief report.

Since they weren't in a huge hurry this time, the Doctor and Merelen had taken it relatively easy on the way back with the Grallish, stopping in an inn rather than riding through the night and approaching the village with the Telashid/Saxon invaders near noon the second day. Uther had nearly ringed the village called Camlann with his warriors, stationing them in groups on each road and hilltop save the exit to the southeast, back the way the invaders had come. The Saxons – those who remained – were visible lounging around the dingy collection of huts and barns, while the four Telashid were nowhere to be seen. Uther had been keeping tight tabs on them, though, and reported them inside the closest barn, a rickety affair just large enough for a handful of cows.

"Any Britons left in the village?" Merelen asked Uther, concerned.

"No, my Lady. The village was deserted before the Saxons returned."

"That's good," she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Did you find the stolen item?" Uther asked. The Doctor and Merelen had kept the precise identity of the "item" to themselves.

"We did," replied the Doctor, then he turned to his companion. "Shall we?" At her nod, he waved their dozen escort out of their saddles to rest, and then the two of them slowly walked their horses down the sloping road towards the barn.

Their approach was observed, and a small handful of Saxons gathered in the roadway before the barn, one of the turning his head to alert the Telashid. By the time the two riders reached the group, the four aliens had filed out, as well, standing in a line in front of their warriors.

"Do you have it?" Medraut's voice was harsh with anticipation.

The Doctor nodded, but made no move towards his coat, where the Grallish was still hidden. "I will remind you of our agreement. You and all these men will return to your own settlements and cease these incursions."

Medraut waved a long hand dismissively towards the Saxons behind him. "Most of them are drunk and will not be moved. We did not expect you so soon. But we will rouse them and leave in the morning, and return no more."

There was something going on here, but the Doctor couldn't figure out what it was. "Then perhaps we will wait and give you the Grallish in the morning, once the men are on their way."

"You will only delay us, then," countered Medraut. "We must have a ceremony to cleanse the Grallish of the taint of contamination, before we can return. Give it to us now and we will do that today, and be ready to leave in the morning."

_Well, that does tie in with their character,_ the Doctor mused. Telashid, he now recalled, were famous for their intricate and interminable ceremonies – some lasted for weeks. _I suppose I should be glad this one will apparently be short._ He nodded, capitulating, and reached under his coat for the bundle at his back. He'd studied the Grallish for a while with the sonic screwdriver the night before at the inn, but found nothing obvious – it was simply a jewel-encrusted dish. About half of those jewels were from Telashid, as was the plate itself, while the other half seemed to have been added recently; they were of Earth origin.

Medraut reached reverently for the dish, taking it on open palms and then stepping backwards to his compatriots. Then he stood still, staring at the Doctor with flat, expressionless eyes.

_Well, what did you expect, gratitude?_ The Doctor kept his gob on the leash this time and merely nodded curtly, abruptly wheeling his black mount around and spurring him towards the distant line of Britons. Merelen followed him a moment later.

Halfway up the hill, he glanced at her troubled face. "What is it?"

She hesitated, then took a breath. "No mention of the thief, my Lord. None – not today, not before. Why would they be so keen on regaining their property that they would lead an invasion, yet have no interest in finding and punishing the one who stole it, as well? Or any others who held the Grallish since then?"

Startled, the Doctor brought his horse to a halt, glancing back towards the aliens below. They had brought some cobbled-together pillar out from the barn and set it up in the middle of the street, laying the Grallish flat on the waist-high top. Now they were standing around it, one on each compass point, double-jointed arms outstretched, elongated fingers just touching. The Doctor's keen hearing caught a low, syncopated, contrapuntal chant – too low to make out the words.

"Why, indeed?" he replied, ruminating. "That doesn't seem to fit their character." Then he shrugged. "Perhaps they have already dealt with the thief. At any rate, it doesn't seem to be an issue. As long as they pack up and leave in the morning, and cause us no more trouble, I don't care." As they continued their ride up the hill, the Doctor found himself musing, _When did these people become "us"? I think I'm taking this King business too seriously..._

Just as they came to the ridgeline and rejoined Uther and their escort, another rider appeared on the further crest at a full gallop, closing the gap in seconds and bringing their mount, a dove-grey mare with lathered sides, to a screeching halt a scant couple of yards from their little group in a display of superb horsemanship.

"Where is it?" cried the rider from under the hood of her long grey cloak – for it was a woman's voice, and a woman's wide blue eyes staring out at all of them in desperation. "What have you done with it? I must have it back!"

"Gwenhyfar?" It was the quiet, brooding Bedwyr who broke their startled silence. He took two long strides to her horse's head and grabbed the bridle, looking up at her. The Doctor wondered fleetingly what the man's expression was, as his longing showed in his astonished voice. "Lady Gwenhyfar? What is it you seek?"

She stared down at the man. "The Grallish! The Grail!" she added at his look of incomprehension. "You didn't tell me you had come to take it!"

"I didn't know!" he denied, anguished.

She took him at his word and shook her head violently, then looked around at the others now gathered in a knot around her horse, focusing in on the Doctor somehow as their leader. "Where is it?" she repeated, beseeching him with desperate eyes.

Something was wrong here, the Doctor realized in one corner of his mind, but he couldn't put a finger on it. "It's been returned to its rightful owners," he began, only to be cut off by her wail of anguish.

"Noooooo! No, no, no!" Gwenhyfar seemed to collapse in upon herself, then began to slip sideways off her saddle, while Bedwyr sprang to catch her. "You have killed me!" Halfway to her knees on the ground, she clutched suddenly at Bedwyr's shoulders with her incredibly long and slender fingers. She threw her head back, knocking the hood of her cloak back as well, and stared with desperate, wild eyes at the Doctor. "You have killed me!" she accused again.

The fingers, the eyes, the shape of her face now fully visible, the double-jointed arms clutching at the knight, brought the answer that had teased the Doctor moments before screaming into his mind. Lady Gwenhyfar, destined to be celebrated through history in song and story as Queen Guinevere...

...was a female alien. A Telashid.


	8. Compulsory Attendance

**Compulsory Attendance  
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The Doctor swung himself down out of his saddle and stepped to Gwenhyfar's side. She dragged herself upright again, still clutching Bedwyr (who didn't seem inclined to let go), and faced the Doctor. Female Telashid were apparently shorter than males; standing, her eyes were on a level with his.

"You were the one who stole it?" he asked, the only factor he could think of that might lead to her death. Were the Telashid apt to exact capital punishment for the crime? If so, why did they not mention the thief, as Merelen had pointed out just minutes before? Something else was tickling his mind, but he brushed it off; getting to the bottom of this mystery was more important.

Gwenhyfar nodded. "I took it with me when I escaped, to prevent them using it against me."

"Use it how? What do you mean, escape?" The tickling was becoming more insistent, and he realized abruptly that it was an actual sensation, not a stray memory or idea. Even as he focused on it, it intensified into a needle-thin, piercing buzz lancing through his brain from forehead to the base of his skull. Tiny tendrils reached out from the lance to flicker and dance through and around his lobes as if looking for something to latch on to. Then, just as abruptly, even as he marshalled his wits to fight it off, it seeped out again, draining out like water from a colander.

Shaking his head, he glanced around at the others. Most were shaking their heads or rubbing their temples, but none seemed permanently affected.

Except Gwenhyfar. Her terrified eyes were laser-locked on his – but even as he looked back, they slipped out of focus, and the expression slowly drained off her face. The buzz had found its target. Her suddenly-nerveless fingers relaxed their hold on Bedwyr's short cloak, and her arms slipped off like dead weight to hang limply at her sides, as she turned slightly and tried to begin walking towards the village below.

Tried to. Bedwyr clutched her tighter, preventing her leaving, crying, "Gwen? Gwen! Look at me!"

"Bedwyr! Let her go!" called the Doctor, as she began to struggle to get free. Her heavy cloak had slipped back from her shoulders, revealing a plain black tunic falling to her knees above loose black trousers, its tight sleeves covering her double-jointed arms to the wrists. The Doctor's keen ears heard tiny telltale rips even as he sprang behind Bedwyr, throwing his arms around the knight and dragging him back a step, forcing him to let go. "Bedwyr! Look!" He pointed at those sleeves, now sprouting a pairs of long black talons at the points of her wrists and elbows. "Poison talons, Bedwyr. She would kill you with a scratch!"

"She would _never..._" Bedwyr hissed back.

"She's not herself, Bedwyr! She's under a compulsion! She doesn't even know you now!"

"A … " Bedwyr's brain seemed to take an extra second to translate the word the TARDIS slipped into his mind. "An enchantment?"

"Yes, an enchantment," the Doctor agreed.

"Then we must break it!" His certainty brooked no refusal, and the Doctor reacted instantly with his own.

"Oh, yes. That we shall. Come on!"

Gwenhyfar had by that time gotten several steps away, and was quickly gaining speed as she stumbled down the road. The Doctor didn't bother trying to stop her again, but ran on past her towards the four Telashid below, stretching his long legs in his most familiar mode of transportation. His ears picked up a horse behind him and he glanced back to see Merelen pacing him; she'd not dismounted during the quick scene above. (A tiny corner of his mind laughed at himself for running rather than riding, but he shrugged it off. Habit dies hard, and he'd been running for nine hundred years.) Bedwyr had slowed beside Gwenhyfar, anguished indecision etching his face, but a glance at her blank expression convinced him, and he pelted on behind the Doctor, one hand on his sword hilt. Most of the rest of the band of Britons were coming along, as well, trotting behind Gwenhyfar, and the Doctor spared a second to hope he could prevent a battle breaking out after all. The situation was decidedly tense.

The Doctor shook his head and faced about, taking in the scene before him in the street. The four Telashid warriors were still gathered about the Grallish, hands touching. The plate itself had levitated a few inches above its makeshift pedestal and was spinning like a gyroscope, the jewels visible only as brilliant, rainbowed flashes as each caught the sunlight and reflected it outward. As the Doctor pelted towards the group, the aliens slowly dropped their hands to their sides and opened up their circle, looking past him towards their female compatriot. Their contrapuntal chant (which the TARDIS still refused to translate) sped up, coming faster and louder, reflecting the excitement on their faces, and Gwenhyfar's stupored pace quickened in response.

Screeching to a halt between the lady and the trap, the Doctor spread his arms and snarled, "Whatever this is, whatever you're doing, I demand that you stop it immediately. This was not part of our agreement, and it's completely against all rules of civilized behavior..." Not even aware of his own words, he let his gob continue, trying just to get a reaction. The aliens ignored him as completely as if he wasn't there at all. He pulled out the sonic and buzzed it, but for once his beloved tool failed him, unable to even get a reading on whatever this power was. He dropped it back into his pocket with a frustrated grunt. Glancing to the side, he saw Merelen holding some talisman and chanting what must have been a countercurse. She caught his questioning look and shook her head, though she didn't stop; but apparently her human powers were as useless as his Time Lord technology against this alien menace.

"My Lord..." Bedwyr warned at his shoulder, and he glanced back to see Gwenhyfar only yards from the circle, her face as pale and empty as death. Bedwyr's sword was drawn, and he looked moments away from using it, his own face twisted in fury and outrage.

"Try to keep her back, but don't let her wound you," the Doctor shot at the knight, then looked at the four again. There seemed to be no way to break through, no way to stop this travesty...

Without conscious thought he reached again, not for his sonic, but for the great broadsword Caliburn, and it sprang to his hand as if it had been forged for him alone. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he raised it high above his head, and it hung there for a double heartbeat, flashing sunlight as brilliant as his fury, drawing every eye in the valley. The universe paused, breathless, waiting.

Before the Telashid could react, the Doctor darted between them, and then with all his might he brought the sword down in a magnificent arc and crashed it onto the center of the spinning Grallish.


	9. The Battle at Camlann

**The Battle at Camlann**

The instant the sword Caliburn connected with the Grallish, it set off a sonic explosion that sent a shock wave lancing out through the village in all directions, knocking everyone within a hundred paces to the ground and blowing those closest to the circle back a few feet as well. Caliburn flew from the Doctor's grip and landed a few feet further on, still ringing its bloodthirsty song from the impact. The Grallish plummeted to the ground beside the pillar like the dead thing it suddenly was, blackened and crumpled; even its jewels were clouded and dull, no longer reflecting the sunlight in flashing rays.

The Doctor recovered swiftly, though he swayed as he sat up, his eyes darting about to ensure no one had been hurt. He turned towards Gwenhyfar and was relieved to see the lively intelligence returning to her eyes, even with the horror at finding herself so close to her kinsmen so suddenly. She began scuttling backwards, crablike, while Bedwyr picked himself up and rushed to her.

An outraged, furious roar from the other side dragged the Doctor's head back around, just in time to roll sideways to avoid a blow from Medraut's battle-axe, which imbedded itself half a hand deep into the turf he'd just vacated. Luckily, he'd managed to instinctively roll towards Caliburn, and so he continued in that direction, snatching it up in between dodges from the flailing axe and then finally scrambling to his feet.

"Lancelot! Get her out of here!" he shouted towards the couple still on the ground.

Bedwyr looked his confusion at the unknown name, but Merelen added her shout, "Bedwyr! He must mean you! Take Gwenhyfar to safety! GO!" The Doctor was only able to catch movement of their retreat out of the corner of his eye; he was completely focused on simply staying alive under the alien's deadly onslaught. He spared a split second to glance at the other three Telashid, but they were apparently content to let their leader handle this interruption, pulling themselves off the ground and moving well back from the action.

He almost paid dearly for that split second, as Medraut took a mighty swing that brought the blade within a millimeter of his chest, but he managed to jerk back just barely far enough, then ducked again completely under the backswing. He threw Caliburn up just in time to block the third, sending a prayer skyward that the unearthly sword would be strong enough – and it was. Whatever alien metal it was made of, whatever the extraterrestrial fires that had forged it, the sword would not be defeated – not by a crude, ill-made battle-axe. It took each blow and sent it ringing back, the vibrations visibly jolting the Telashid's double-jointed arms each time, and each time without a single mark to mar its brilliant shine, nor a single nick to dull its lethal twin razor-sharp edges.

It was a good thing, too, because this fight was proceeding at a _much_ faster pace than the one he'd been reminiscing about so recently against the Sycorax commander. Whereas that duel had been almost ceremonious in tone (even though for much higher stakes), this was like reaping a whirlwind. The Telashid didn't stop, didn't slow down for an instant, but just kept swinging again and again, as hard and fast as he could, pushing the Doctor further and further back with each stroke. It was all the Doctor could do to simply continue to block each one.

Finally the inevitable happened, and the alien's longer reach and superior strength pushed Caliburn back just a tiny fraction of an inch too far – and the Doctor found himself the possessor of a long, deep slice across his midriff. A slice that immediately began hissing and burning, burning so hot that he glanced down involuntarily to make sure he wasn't actually on fire. As his eyes returned to Medraut's face, he saw the reason in the alien's triumphant gleam.

"You poisoned the blade, didn't you?" the Doctor hissed, the first words either had spoken since the battle began. "Poison from your own body, no doubt."

Medraut's only reply was a broader grin and redoubled attack. The Doctor found himself fighting on two fronts at once, as he mentally marshaled his body's defenses against the poison, even while continuing to block the battle-axe's harsh swings. He knew he wasn't going to be able to keep it up for long. He was going to succumb to one or the other within minutes. Up to this point he'd been analyzing his opponent with the detached, executive part of his brain, looking for a way to end the fight without straying over his lifelong, self-imposed line into attack and murder.

Medraut pushed him back another shuffling half-step, and his heel caught on a half-buried rock, tripping him up. He fell backwards into the dust – and saw the opening as it came. Medraut's grin went feral, triumphant, as he lunged in past his own balance point to lance his poisoned blade deep into the Doctor's belly. The Doctor managed to bring Caliburn down just in time, deflecting the axe that tiny, vital inch – then he pulled one hand off the sword's hilt and grabbed the alien's wrist, adding his own continuing back-and-down momentum to Medraut's to pull him off his feet.

He saw his mistake just in time, as the alien's five-inch talons sprang out from his wrists, and Medraut used his weight to press them down towards the Doctor's face. As the Doctor was almost on his back already, he simply continued to roll with their momentum, bringing his legs up and planting his feet into Medraut's midsection to kick him on up and over.

More than anything, he just wanted to stop and catch his breath, and fight the poison which had seemingly seeped deep inside his frame. Now his lungs felt like they were on fire as well, and he was suddenly in mortal fear for his twin hearts pounding their double rhythm away. But he couldn't stop. Medraut kept rolling until he stopped at his feet, sprang up and came back at him. He barely had enough time to stand up again and bring Caliburn back in line.

Something else was wrong now, though. Medraut was slower, and seemed to be favoring his left side. Something in the kick-and-roll had damaged him. Grimly, the Doctor set about turning that to his advantage. He began to press back, swinging Caliburn on through his constant blocking moves to try to take the fight back to Medraut. His lungs were filling with liquid now; he was going to have to switch to his respiratory bypass system soon, but he wouldn't be able to keep that up for long, either.

The end, when it came, came more by accident than design. Medraut brought his axe up over his head in a two-handed grip and swung for the Doctor's scalp, but his now visibly-weakened left side allowed his right arm to dominate, and the axe head drifted to that side. The Doctor managed to bring Caliburn up yet again to block, and the singing sword forced the axe aside further – and then the sword turned slightly and slid down the axe's handle, the Doctor's own momentum slipping it past Medraut's defenses. The sword bit deep into the alien's hands and he screamed with a surprisingly high-pitched warble, dropping the axe to the ground. Caliburn's arc didn't stop, but continued almost of its own volition, slicing the alien's forearms and biting into his chest before the Doctor came to the end of his reach and pulled it back.

Medraut's scream ended abruptly, cut off by sheer willpower, though the alien slipped to his knees. He snarled up at the Doctor wordlessly. Panting hard, trying to breathe past the fire, the Time Lord planted his feet apart and pointed Caliburn at Medraut's throat, fighting to find the breath to complete the universal ritual of surrender.

"Do you yield?" he rasped. He struggled to keep his knowledge of the poison's inevitable deadly effects off his face.

Medraut saw it anyway, but his own life was seeping away with his green-tinged blood. He stared hard into the Doctor's eyes with implacable hatred. He raised both empty hands and clenched his fists before clapping them and his forearms together. "Never!" came the hissed reply.

And then he plunged his deadly, poisoned elbow talons deep into his own chest. His fists worked, apparently pumping more poison into his own system. It didn't take long for it to do its work. With a final, triumphant grimace, Medraut's eyes glazed over, and he slowly toppled over sideways into the dirt of the English village road.

Caliburn's point followed him down, the Doctor's jaw dropping in amazement at the turn of events. He had no time to savor victory or react in shock to his opponent's suicide, though – the poison was reaching his hearts. He staggered sideways a step or two, Caliburn dropping into the dust from suddenly-nerveless hands. He barely registered Merelen appearing at his side, calling to him from a vast distance. His mind was trying to formulate a defense, discover what he needed to combat the poison, flying back to the last time he'd been poisoned, with Donna handing him olives and nuts, then kissing him abruptly to give him the necessary shock.

_Concentrate, Doctor!_ he yelled at himself, bringing his focus back to the present with a superhuman effort. _I just had lunch, it's still in my system, a huge hunk of bacon. Salt and protein both. Shouldn't need any... shouldn't need... shock... Donna... kiss... _

His vision had narrowed to a single pinpoint of light. He heard someone scream his name in his ear from a million miles away.

And then there was nothing.


	10. Poison

**Poison**

The Doctor slowly swam up through a fog of ice and fire, surfacing to the sensations of someone close beside him working over his wounded chest. He was lying on his back somewhere, sounds of shouting strangely muffled coming from a distance. For some reason it was vitally important that he identify the source of the muffling, and he finally placed it with a feeling of hollow triumph: he was inside a small structure. A stone hut.

He forced his eyelids to open, tearing through what felt like glue, but he couldn't focus them properly. There _was_ someone there beside him, leaning over to within centimeters of the poisoned gash on his chest. He could feel something being done but couldn't decipher what past the gauzy pain. The person's head was blocking the only source of light, a flickering candle beyond his feet. All he could see was a halo of blonde hair.

And there was only one person in the universe who had hair like that. One person he wanted to see more than any other, his desperate desire as great as his fear.

"_Rose...? _" He croaked the name in a hoarse whisper.

The head moved, lifting up out of the candle's halo, and snapped into focus.

Not Rose. Gwenhyfar.

She was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear the words for the hurricane roaring through his head. With the realization of her identity memory returned, and an aneurysm of pain and fury and self-loathing burst inside him, spraying its acid poison through his soul and searing his hearts and mind with the words he struggled always to keep from his consciousness.

_You stupid, worthless worm, it's not Rose, it will never be Rose again, you left her behind deliberately, like you leave everybody behind, destroyed and betrayed like you betray everyone you care about and everyone you don't, she's lucky to be alive at all, alive and heartbroken and stranded in that parallel world, forever and ever out of your reach, good for her, she'll have a chance at a longer life without you, that's what you wanted isn't it? isn't it? LIAR! you left her and RAN like the coward you are and always have been and always will be, coward betrayer Destroyer of Worlds, Killer of your Own Kind, Oncoming Storm, oncoming failure, constant failure, you can't keep anyone alive, you can't make anyone happy, you'll always fail, you'll always run, you'll always lose and lie about it, lie to yourself that you did it for them, lie to protect your cowardly black hearts, liar coward failure worm killer murderer …_

Down and down and down he spiraled, into the pit of his own despair, ever-present beneath his mask of smiles and laughs and adventures, down into the bottomless pit, knowing the monster that waited for him below was his own deceitful self.

He did the only thing he could, flooding his brain with anti-endorphins that blocked the synapses and temporarily shut down every mental process. Consciousness fled again, taking with it the final taunt of _Coward!_, and he dove into the empty black with a moan.

^..^

"What did he say?" Merelen whispered from beyond his head.

"I... don't know," Gwenhyfar matched her tone. "It might have been a name. It sounded like he was calling for someone..." She glanced up at the Lady of the Lake, sorrow and bewilderment vying with the exhaustion etched into her cheeks.

Merelen considered, then shook her head at the other woman. "We will not speak of it," she cautioned.

Gwenhyfar nodded, and the two returned to their separate but entwined tasks, striving with all their disparate skills, and hearts, and hopes, fighting against the poison and time, working desperately to save the King.


	11. Nothing

**Nothing **

He existed.

Gradually, dimly, he became aware of that fact, became aware of awareness, of existence, a tiny, insignificant speck of psyche floating all alone in a vast sea of nothingness. With that knowledge came the idea that there was more, much more, hovering just outside his tiny sphere of nonverbal, noncorporeal thought, waiting for him to reach for it, but that he didn't want to go there. Not just yet. He just wanted to rest, all alone in this utter tranquility.

But... he wasn't alone. As he continued to drift, he dimly felt surrounded by a vague, dispersed intelligence. It wasn't malevolent – far from it. He felt cocooned by whatever it was, protected, as though it had read his desire for absence from that cacophonous life he knew was waiting and was helping him achieve it. And as he became aware of the intelligence, he knew that somehow it was aware of his awareness in return. Intrigued, he tried to reach out to it, but it slipped away through his mental fingers, remaining just out of grasp, mistlike.

He contemplated this for a while, until a vision of staring at eyes staring back at him from a wall of fog crossed his mind. He shied away from it, not wanting any intrusion of the physical realm just yet. But as he mentally flinched, a possibility occurred to him, and he tried sending the query out to the mist. Was it the TARDIS?

With the concept, the actual word broke through the barrier he was trying to maintain, and the world flooded in. He just barely caught an amused reaction – and possible confirmation, but he couldn't be certain – from the entity in the mist, before a flood of other words locked viselike onto his attention. Words he was hearing with his physical ears – dammit, there his body was after all.

He lay utterly still, shamming continued unconsciousness while his treacherous mind disobeyed him and continued to reconnect to his body, and hoped whoever was speaking would go away. No such luck. Finally, with a mental sigh of resignation, he tuned into the words themselves and let himself understand the message.

"My lord? Doctor?" It was Merelen, speaking somewhere close to his ear. "Please, my lord, please wake up. We need you." _Don't say it_ raced through his mind – too late. "Please help us."

Dammit.

With a groan, he opened his eyes again, seeing the Lady of the Lake bending close over him on the one side, while – sliding his eyes right – there was Gwenhyfar again on the other. She was sitting up this time, out of the path of the light; no mistaking her again.

"Gwenhyfar?" he queried, petulant. "What are you still doing here? I told you to go!" A snort from beyond her caught his attention, and he looked further right to see Bedwyr leaning against the wall near a door; apparently they'd moved him inside one of the rough huts. "Bedwyr! I told you to get her out of here!"

"She refused to leave, my lord. Good thing for you," Bedwyr added cryptically.

"What do you mean?" The Doctor looked back at the alien woman, who glanced shyly down at the rough-tanned leather deerhide covering him before giving him an answer.

"We Telashid not only produce poison, my lord, we also produce the antidote."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? How do you do that?" Feeling disadvantaged flat on his back. he raised himself up on one elbow.

This time she looked straight at him, amusement quirking her mouth. "Do you really want to know?" she asked after a beat.

He thought about it for approximately two-fifths of a second, the memory of her bending very near his wounded chest flashing across his mind. "Nope! I'm good!" Speaking of which, he put a hand where the painfully deep gash had been, and was astounded to find nothing at all, not even a scar. He looked his astonishment back at Gwenhyfar. "How...?"

The lady shook her head, denying. "That wasn't me, my lord." She nodded across at Merelen, and he followed her gaze to find the Lady of the Lake echoing the headshake.

"It wasn't me, either." Merelen's eyes were absolutely shining with wonder and reverence, her voice breathy with joy. "The Goddess gave you her blessing, my lord. She sent her holy fire to heal you. And then... allowed me to take it." Opening her folded hands, which she had been holding in her lap, she brought them up to show the Doctor a small crystal vial, just two inches high, stoppered with another crystal – and now filled with a familiar golden radiance.

Eyes goggling, he stared at the Vortex energy for a moment, then abruptly sat straight up, checking out his hands and arms, then touching his face and hair. "I'm still me," he murmured in astonishment. "Why didn't I regenerate?"

"My lord?" Evidently the word hadn't translated.

The Doctor reached out towards the vial, a hundred thoughts flashing through his mind. _I should take it. If she tries to use it, no telling what might happen. Why didn't it change me? How did she stop it? How did she capture it?_ The look in her eyes stopped him cold. _No. I won't stop her from becoming what she can be – whatever that is. Not this time._ He smiled at her, and gently wrapped her hands back around the vial, then suddenly switched gears.

"I told you not to call me 'my lord'. I'm just the Doctor. Now... why did you wake me up? What's the big emergency?"

Merelen took a breath and shook herself, securing the vial in some hidden pocket while she answered. "The aliens – the others – will speak only with you. They said you were the champion. Uther tried to send them back to their territory, but they refused to leave, and the Saxons stayed as well. They said if you were dead, then the champion's right died with you, and the war will begin again. Our own warriors are ready to strike; Uther is tearing his hair out holding them back. They are waiting by the Council Stone, but you must come by sunset. It's only an hour away."

"Then let's go!" replied the champion with a grin. "Allons-y!" He flung the deerhide aside and swung his legs to the floor (belated grateful they'd left his clothes on him), buttoning up his suit jacket over his ruined t-shirt and finding his trainers beside the cot. Catching Gwenhyfar's eye, he stopped momentarily, asking her in a low voice, "You're coming to the council, too?" She solemnly nodded back before rising to her feet and melting out the door, brushing by Bedwyr with her head ducked. The knight stared after her for a moment, then nodded at the Doctor and followed her out the door.

"My lo – Doctor?" Merelen had stood, as well, but stopped at the foot of the cot. "May I ask you a question?"

"What is it?" Tying his trainers, he didn't look up.

"You called out once – a name. I was wondering..." She bit her lip, then rushed on. "The Goddess has many names. Was that your name for Her?"

"What name?" Only half paying attention.

"Rose."

He froze, staring at the floor. Then without a word or glance, he stood and walked swiftly out the door into the evening.


	12. The Conference

**The Conference**

The Council Stone was apparently set within an ancient, airy grove of towering elm trees which crowned the hill to the east of the village. The Doctor paced up the slope behind Merelen, his guide, his mind empty of thought or memory (shying away from Merelen's intemperate question), opening it up to whatever possibilities might present themselves to resolve this hairy situation. Apparently everyone had decided to rely on his judgment. _Well, what's the use of being King if I can't decide people's fates?_ he asked himself with a mental smirk, before wiping away the thought and returning to his open-minded contemplation.

The small train threaded their way between the elms, following a path that echoed with momentous events of eons past; Merelen, the Doctor, Gwenhyfar, and Bedwyr bringing up the rear. The late afternoon sun was slanting almost sideways, casting glowing gold stripes and cool green shadows from behind them through the tall, lush grasses bending in the gentle breeze. From far overhead came the evening chorus of songbirds getting ready for the night, while a growing murmur from ahead told them the other parties to this council were already assembled and waiting. As he came through the last gap and finally saw the Council Stone before him, the Doctor stopped involuntarily and laughed. "I should have known!"

The Stone was an enormous, flat-topped boulder, roughly oval, about four or five meters across. Originally level with the forest floor, the earth and rock all around it had been painstakingly removed until it stood alone in a miniature man-made glen, its top at roughly waist height. The Round Table in living, uncut granite.

Directly across the Stone, on its eastern side, the three remaining Telashid warriors were gathering themselves up from where they had been sitting on the slightly sloping sides of the glen, while to the south their actions were being echoed by a handful of the Saxons they had been leading. The Doctor could see a large group of Saxons sitting among the trees behind their countrymen, loosely ringed by his own warband. Uther and two other high-ranking Britons were already standing by the Stone on his immediate left, taking the north quadrant, and his own little band completed the circle on the west.

The Doctor stepped up to the Stone, unsheathing the King's sword Caliburn and holding it before his nose in a salute before raising it high into the air, pointing to the sky. "Let all who have business with the King step forward and make their petition, without fear of violence or retribution. None shall be harmed within this sacred grove." Feeling pleased with himself for the elegant, formal opening, he ceremoniously laid Caliburn down upon the Stone, pointing towards the center. The others hesitated, then each carefully drew his own weapon and laid it down as well, signaling their intent to parlay peacefully. Even Merelen and Gwenhyfar, the only women present, placed their small (but lethal) daggers before them.

He got straight to the point, bluntly asking the aliens across the Stone, "How many of you are left?"

The one in the middle seemed to have taken over as leader, for he answered without delay, "The three of us, and..." He gestured towards Gwenhyfar, then looked sharply at her. "Where is the other female?"

Gwenhyfar glared at him before she answered, pointedly stressing the name he'd apparently forgotten. "_Abdelon..._ died last winter."

"And _you_ would condemn the rest of us to death, as well, with your refusal to do your duty!" he countered.

"My _duty?_" She was outraged. "What of my _life?"_ The Doctor stood silently, his eyes bouncing back and forth, letting them play it out until the answers appeared.

"What of our _people's_ lives?" countered her opponent.

"There are _four_ of us, Tonshin. That hardly qualifies as a 'people'." Gwenhyfar's voice had dropped, the very quietness and calmness of her reply pressing the point home.

"There would be double that if you returned! We might have a chance!" Tonshin wasn't ready for reason.

The Doctor broke in. "Wait a minute." He turned to Gwenhyfar. "You mean this whole thing is about you having children? Another generation of Telashid castaways?"

A beat. "And _dying_ from it." When the Doctor blinked, not following, she went on. "Telashid infants grow within their mother's body until they are half the size of adults, long past when she can move an inch or survive their birth. Then they burst out through the skin, killing her, and consume her body as their first meal." His eyes, along with everyone else's, were showing his horror, and she waved a placating hand. "On our home world, my lord, it is an honored choice, made by the female alone, at the end of a long, productive life. She gives herself willingly to the future, to continue our civilization." She turned back to Tonshin, her voice turning resentful again. "A choice which you would take from me, along with my reason, and force me into this against my will."

"Then we will all die here on this planet, so far from home, with nothing to show we were ever here."

"And so your answer is to bring forth another tiny brood, children who will live their lives alone and die alone, prolonging our disappearance from this place where we never should have been in the first place, for but a single generation? Where is the sense in that, Tonshin?" She shook her head slowly. "No. I refuse to die just to condemn my children to such a lonely, meaningless existence."

_Enough_ thought the Doctor. "No one will take that choice from you, Gwenhyfar, not as long as I have anything to say about it." He turned back to the males. "You will not force her to do this."

Tonshin glared at him. "Then it is _you_ who condemn us to die out."

Unexpectedly, the Doctor grinned. "Oh, hardly. Come on, Tonshin, where's your imagination? You can do better than that!" He leaned over the Stone on his knuckles. "I'm a Time Lord. From the planet Gallifrey. I got here in a ship, and I can leave in a ship." He waited a bit for that to sink in. "And I can take you home, as well. Back to Telashika. Back to your own people, where you belong."

The aliens went still as the Stone, not even daring to breathe. "You would do this?" whispered Tonshin.

"Yes," the Doctor replied simply, then his gaze sharpened. "On one condition. That you tell NO ONE where you've been. No star charts, no captain's logs, no souvenirs from Earth. No return visits from your people to this planet – EVER."

Tonshin shrugged. "Nothing survived of the ship's wreckage, and none of us were navigators. We three couldn't even tell you what part of the galaxy we're in."

The Doctor grinned again. "Well, then..." Standing upright, he turned to Gwenhyfar. "And you?"

The startled excitement in her eyes drained swiftly away, leaving her bereft. "I was born here," she replied in a whisper. "This is the only world I've ever known..."

"Then do not leave," came from her other side. Bedwyr put a gentle hand on her arm, turning her to face him. "Stay. My offer stands." No one had to ask what offer that was; his longing expression told all.

Astonishment stole over Gwenhyfar's face. "You would still have me? Now that you know what I really am?"

Bedwyr shook his head in dismissal. "I have _always_ known what you really are, Gwen. Kind, gentle, full of wit and grace and intelligence... I care not for anything else." Taking both her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and pressed a kiss into her long fingers. "Stay with me." His eyes, on the same level of hers, beseeched her.

Gwenhyfar took a deep, joyful breath, then swirled back around to the Doctor. "My lord? With your permission?"

"I already gave it to you!" he shot back, mock-exasperated, then waved them off dramatically. "Go! Get out of here already!" As the ecstatic couple turned to run out of the glen, he laughed after them, then turned back to the Stone with a murmur to no one, "Just watch out for fisher kings!"

The smile died to seriousness again as he caught Tonshin's eye. "We will leave here in the morning and head to my ship. No more trouble from you!" and Tonshin nodded agreement.

Next the King turned to the Saxon leaders, who had stood silently by all this time. "And as for you, Saxons..." He leaned over the Stone again, intense, enunciating clearly. "This. Is not. Your land." _Not yet, anyway._ "You and your men will return to your borders, to the lands which were already ceded to you. You will return to your homes and your farms, and Leave. Us. Alone." _At least till Cerdic arrives and begins the inexorable march towards Anglo-Saxon England._ "Is this in any way unclear?"

The Saxon leader stared back, hard and unyielding. "Your champion's right gives you supremacy over them," jerking his chin towards the three aliens, "not us." A beat, but before the Doctor drew breath to take up the challenge, he withdrew it. "But it is late in the year already, and soon will be harvest. There is nothing left here we want. We will return to our farms." _Until next time..._ his eyes added.

The Doctor waited a few double heartbeats, then nodded. He knew better than anyone that the Saxon Flood was coming, and this was the last calm breath of the Britons before the end. But he'd done what little he could. Perhaps they'd have a few more years.

"You've a long walk ahead of you," he said mildly, but with steel. "I'd suggest you begin now. Uther... send your men along to _escort_ our guests to the border... and then rebuild the defenses." His gaze hadn't left the Saxon's, and he continued staring at the man until the latter broke away, scooping up his weapon and turning abruptly towards his men in the woods behind. Uther had already begun shouting both armies up off the ground, getting them moving.

The Doctor took a deep breath, letting his gaze drop at last to the smooth granite surface of the Round Table, seeing the last streaks of the sunset behind him dyeing the stone blood red. _Not today. No more blood on my hands._

He picked up Caliburn and turned on his heel, sliding the sword home in its leather scabbard with a decisive _slick_, and then strode into the majestic grove set ablaze by the setting sun. Alone.


	13. The Lady's Story

_**A/N:** My profound apologies for keeping you waiting for this ending, especially since it's so short. My only defense is my jam-packed life. _

* * *

><p><strong>The Lady's Story<strong>

We returned to the Tor once more, and the King led the three aliens, Uther, and myself up the side until we came to the most astounding sight: a tall box made of wood, rather like a very large upended chest, painted blue, with curious markings upon it. When he unlocked it and showed us the inside, it was purest magic: an entire large chamber was tucked somehow inside that one small box. It was impossible, and I stared at him along with the others in disbelief.

Then he grinned at me. "You could come with me, Merelen. We could go traveling together, all through time and space, and have such wonderful adventures!"

I confess, I was tempted. But the geas of the Goddess weighs heaviest upon those she most favors. "My place is here, my lord, where I serve the Goddess and my people." I could tell he was disappointed – and so was I – but I had no choice.

The King, the Doctor, then turned to Uther, and drew the sword Caliburn from its sheath. Holding it reverently across his palms, he presented it to the warrior, to his astonishment.

"This land needs a King, Uther, who can hold it together and protect it from the Saxon Tide for as long as he can. I cannot be that King; I am leaving, and will not return. That King is you."

Uther tried to protest, but the Doctor would have none of it, and at last he persuaded Uther to take the sword – and the Kingship.

Then he grinned, and winked at us both, before returning inside his box where the Telashid awaited him. And then, by the Goddess herself, I swear this is true: with a flashing light and a sound I can only describe as coming from another world, the box disappeared into thin air, leaving only Uther and I in the clearing. The Doctor was gone, and he has not been seen in the twenty years since.

Uther took up the sword as he promised, and ruled these twenty years as I knew he would: magnificently. He fought a great many battles against Saxons, Picts, and Irish, and won them all – until the last one. Ironically again at Camlann, he was at last defeated by the Saxon King Cerdic. Uther was wounded many times during those years, and each time I was able to use the Goddess's holy fire to cure him – until, again, the last battle. Then the Christian priests he had begun to favor in his later years burst in upon us, screaming that I was doing the work of their evil god Satan rather than the Goddess, and her fire fled, running down and disappearing in the rushes like raindrops. I was thrown out of the chamber, and Uther died later that night. Since that final battle, the Saxon Tide has swept across our land unchecked, and the final days of the Britons has disappeared with the sunset.

My readers may claim I am mistaken, or lying, when I tell of these events. Surely it was King Arthur who did these things. And they are right. For Uther not only took up the sword of his predecessor, he also took his name, the name the Doctor had denied from the beginning, and ruled for two decades as King Arthur. I think that if the Doctor had known, he would not have been displeased.

At least I was able to retrieve the sword, though I shall not recount exactly how I did so, by trickery and deceit. I am hiding it, along with the Grallish I have kept tucked away all these years, and this manuscript, deep inside the Tor, in the hopes that some day they will be found again.

In the hopes that someday, when he is needed, the Doctor will return.


End file.
